What to Write?
Percival Baines sat by the fire in his dark cramped front room staring dejectedly into the flames. There was a short sharp rap on the door. Glancing over, he sighed and grunted at it. After a moment with no sign anyone was going to answer the knock, the door opened and a tall, slender, smartly dressed gentleman entered.
He looked around at the cluttered and messy room and at the miserable, slumped man in front of the fire. With a disapproving noise he removed his bowler hat and walked over to a second chair.
He looked around at the cluttered and messy room and at the miserable, slumped man in front of the fire. With a disapproving noise he removed his bowler hat and walked over to a second chair.
“What happened?” another grunt from Percival. “Percy! What did they say?” Finally Percival looked away from the fire.
“That it was silly, childish and farfetched! Bert, they didn’t want my play.” He went back to staring into the fire.
Bert looked at his friend sadly, then got up and went to the drink stand, poured two whiskeys and returned to his seat. He thrust a
drink into Percival’s hand where it sat, unmoving.
“Have you thought about writing something other than a play?” he asked sipping at his drink.
“Like what?” Percival continued to stare into the fire, refusing to look at his friend. Why couldn’t Bert just let him wallow?
“Well, my little Gertie loved that short story you wrote her last Christmas.” A shadow of a smile briefly touched Percival’s lips.
“It was good. Won’t pay the bills though.”
“Well what about Poetry? That’s all the rage at the moment.”Percival snapped his head around almost spilling his untouched drink and
fixed Bert with a steely glare. “Okay! Okay! Not Poetry. Calm yourself my friend!” There was an awkward silence. Percival went back to
staring in the fire and Bert thoughtfully swirled the whiskey around in his glass. Finally just as Bert was shifting in his chair, ready to leave
his friend to his melancholy, Percival spoke.
“I could write a monologue… no, too boring, not good at comedy either. I could write a novel…”
“Now you are getting there!” said Bert enthusiastically. “Or your memoirs?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m neither old nor interesting!”
Bert’s face suddenly lit up and he stood up. “My bank has just financed a new venture. A moving picture – they call it, a film. Why don’t
you write one of those?” A flicker of fire appeared in Percival’s eye.
“Yes. I could do that…”
“Excellent!” Bert swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table. “I must go. Martha is cooking a roast
for tea and I had better not be late.” Percy raised his hand and finally got out of his chair.
“Thank you! What would I do without you?” Firmly he grasped his friends’ hand. Smiling broadly Bert left for home and Percival walked over
to his desk, took out a pen, ink and some paper and sat down to write.
“That it was silly, childish and farfetched! Bert, they didn’t want my play.” He went back to staring into the fire.
Bert looked at his friend sadly, then got up and went to the drink stand, poured two whiskeys and returned to his seat. He thrust a
drink into Percival’s hand where it sat, unmoving.
“Have you thought about writing something other than a play?” he asked sipping at his drink.
“Like what?” Percival continued to stare into the fire, refusing to look at his friend. Why couldn’t Bert just let him wallow?
“Well, my little Gertie loved that short story you wrote her last Christmas.” A shadow of a smile briefly touched Percival’s lips.
“It was good. Won’t pay the bills though.”
“Well what about Poetry? That’s all the rage at the moment.”Percival snapped his head around almost spilling his untouched drink and
fixed Bert with a steely glare. “Okay! Okay! Not Poetry. Calm yourself my friend!” There was an awkward silence. Percival went back to
staring in the fire and Bert thoughtfully swirled the whiskey around in his glass. Finally just as Bert was shifting in his chair, ready to leave
his friend to his melancholy, Percival spoke.
“I could write a monologue… no, too boring, not good at comedy either. I could write a novel…”
“Now you are getting there!” said Bert enthusiastically. “Or your memoirs?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m neither old nor interesting!”
Bert’s face suddenly lit up and he stood up. “My bank has just financed a new venture. A moving picture – they call it, a film. Why don’t
you write one of those?” A flicker of fire appeared in Percival’s eye.
“Yes. I could do that…”
“Excellent!” Bert swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table. “I must go. Martha is cooking a roast
for tea and I had better not be late.” Percy raised his hand and finally got out of his chair.
“Thank you! What would I do without you?” Firmly he grasped his friends’ hand. Smiling broadly Bert left for home and Percival walked over
to his desk, took out a pen, ink and some paper and sat down to write.